


To Them These Streets Belong

by ladyredms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Slow Burn, assorted character cameos (Benny/Naomi/Kevin/Charlie/ETC)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyredms/pseuds/ladyredms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel posed like deleted scenes inserted between/during episodes, so heavily "canon" (aka pretty much everything other than what I write is as it happened in the show - just plus your recommended daily value of latent feelings)</p><p>Season 7 and onward, since that's when all the juicy plot threads come together.</p><p>Everything's pretty much fair game spoiler-wise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Season 7 Episode 22

When Dean Winchester slept, it fell into one of three categories.

Sometimes, he was out like a light - crashed for hours upon hours, immobile, like a damn coma patient. It was the kind of sleep he only got when he was somewhere safe or when he'd finally run himself down to raw nerves and simply couldn't go on without rest. There was usually alcohol involved.

Most other times, he slept like a guard dog. Deeply, sure, but the slightest disturbance would have him lurching for the gun or knife under his pillow. Protect himself. Protect Sam. Something as simple as his brother's breath hiccupping in a split-second snore could disturb him. He'd stir, scan for normalcy, and then cautiously return to his half-sleep.

Dean had spent his whole life acting as a sentinel for one reason or another, and he wouldn't let a little unconsciousness get in the way of that job.

Then, there was the sleep he was currently having: sleep defined precisely by how sleepless it was. Nightmares were par for the course with Dean, and they'd only gotten worse over the years. Between the day-in/day-outs of a hunter's life, Hell, the narrowly-averted apocalypse, and the current eerie Leviathan-run dystopia that his life had turned into...

Flavor of the day was Hell.

It didn't take much to turn his memories of Hell into a nightmare. Most of the time, it was flat-out re-enactment. Just seeing Hell again was enough to send his body into frantic twitches, eyes going mad under his eyelids, sweat beading up from every pore.

Real life could never match what Hell felt like. Like Dean had coached Sam to understand back when he was riding bitch with Lucifer, there was something different. Getting your soul torn to ribbons, piece by delicate piece, was a feeling that no human body could truly process. Hell was distant, because Dean knew where the line was between it and reality.

Unfortunately, Dean's dreamscape crossed over that line.

 

> _"What are you holding onto so... tightly?"_
> 
> _He was so near gone – almost nothing. Just tatters, barely held in place by barbwire hooks that sank into the ruined marrow of his soul. There was nothing to scream with, nothing to fight with. Alastair's touch was agonizing, now, even when he merely toyed at Dean's flesh with his fingertips._
> 
> _This was always the worst. That moment when he was all but teetering on the edge of oblivion, when all the agony took to a crescendo that made him hope – pray – that maybe this time, finally, he'd slip away forever._
> 
> _"Your humanity? That's really the funniest part. You bear all this, thinking you're grasping at some... moral fiber, when you've been demon material your whole life, haven't you?" Dean was nothing but gossamer and blood, and Alastair dragged his lips across rent flesh slow, easy._
> 
> _Dean was back together in an instant, just in time for Alastair's teeth to sink into his shoulder – but he wasn't on the rack anymore._
> 
> _God save him, he wasn't on the rack._
> 
> _"Azazel may have his claws in Sam, but you're my favorite, Dean. You're a monster; it's in you, Dean, I just had to carve it out. Can't you -" Alastair inhaled deeply against his skin, and his next words verged on sing-song. "... feel it? 'Cause I can."_
> 
> _Dean moved with only half-lucid ferocity, clumsy with need. Clawing his fingers into the soul hanging in front of him, Dean dug out handfuls of meat with nothing but his nails for leverage. The screaming, Christ – the screaming... but it wasn't his voice that was screaming, it was someone else's, and all he felt was cold relief._
> 
> _"You were born for this, son. You're my perfect animal."_

 

Dean's ringtone shocked him into consciousness, surging up, choking in air like he'd been underwater.

Crashing out lengthwise in the front seat of that week's _'_ _random piece of shit car they jacked from a parking lot'_ had been a sound enough plan to start with, but waking up in the darkened enclosure left him disoriented, body expecting the open space of a bed. His foot kicked out in a wild strike that collided his boot with the dash, and his elbow shoved against the cushions to get his hand jammed into his pocket.

At first, he was reaching for a weapon - but his brain caught up a few seconds later, and his fingers pushed aside the ivory grip of his .45 to get at his phone instead. "Damnit." he muttered amidst the fumble to get his cell out and answered. He dragged himself into a half-crunch, getting his shoulder against the seat to stay upright.

Pressing the phone to his ear, Dean took a slow and weary moment to rub his knuckles across his eyes, sighing heavily. "... Yeah?" he prompted, low and rough in his throat as he cleared it with a cough.

He expected Sam, finally calling with news. What he didn't expect was to hear his own bleary voice, tinny and muffled, echo from the backseat. Like the phone that had called him was _right there._ The proximity of the sound immediately put the hair on the back of his neck to a shocked prickle. 

He spun, hand moving like a snake to grab his gun from his jacket and aim it over his shoulder.

For a beat of time, he was aiming his gun straight into Castiel's wide-eyed face. The angel's cellphone splashed tepid blue light across his cheek from where it sat against his ear, lighting his features in jagged and awkward waves that sagged at his cheekbones and eyesockets.

Dean didn't have time to lower the gun, let alone speak a word, before Castiel was gone on a flutter of feathers and the cellphone dropped unceremoniously onto the seat cushions. The impact rustled through the phone line, crackling in Dean's ear at a weird delay to the dull thud it made as it actually landed.

'Startled' being a vast understatement, Dean pulled his phone away from his ear and lowered his .45. It took him a few moments to fully process what had just happened, and he pushed his body completely upright. "The hell – Cas? Cas!"

There was no response, nor reappearance, though Dean hadn't exactly been expecting one. He returned his gun to his pocket but kept a hand brushed against its grip out of nerves. "Cas!" he repeated, tone dulling, less _'get back here'_ and more _'what the hell is up with this guy'._

The angel hadn't been firing on all cylinders since he'd taken on Sam's... damage. As much as Dean had been glad to see him get vertical after the discovery of the Leviathan tablet, seeing Castiel muddle around in the half-crazed, half-dopey way he tended to now was almost as bad as watching Sam dart his eyes toward someone who wasn't there.

He'd traded wound for wound, pain for pain. Guilt for guilt.

Jamming open the car door, Dean swung a leg out and hit asphalt with his bootheel, getting out of the vehicle and scanning around. He'd taken up a vantage point just up the road from a warehouse Sam was convinced was infested. It had only been a short detour from their trek to North Dakota and, assuming Crowley wasn't screwing with them, the alpha vampire.

(Dean was eager to get the hell on the road and get that much closer to putting Dick six feet under, but considering how many times he'd pressured Sam to work jobs regardless of what else was on their plate, he couldn't quite swallow down his hypocrisy long enough to argue.)

"Come on... You jump a hunter, you get what you get." Dean hissed out into the muted darkness, jabbing his hands at his chest. The moon and dull streetlamps illuminated the street enough to make it clear that the angel was gone. "Look... The gun's away, okay? Come on back, Bambi." Illustrating the fact by raising his hands up, fingers spread, Dean glanced around in search of the skittish angel-turned-headcase.

Sighing at the silence, Dean turned to slide back into his car - and promptly had his heart jump clear out of his chest at the sight of Castiel sitting cross-legged on the roof of the vehicle.

Dean uttered a half-swear, clasping a hand hard on his sternum and letting out a breath through rounded lips. "Cas, for the love of God, give a guy some warning." The angel slowly turned his eyes onto Dean, slate-blue disks shadowy in the night air, expression slowly screwing up into something distant and uncomprehending.

It was a face Cas made often, though not recently: a scanning stare that bored into Dean's, piercing, like he could peel the hunter apart with his eyes and see straight through him. It made Dean extraordinarily uncomfortable in an extraordinarily familiar way.

Dean recognized his mistake, of course: 'for the love of God' wasn't the best phrase to use in front of Castiel, let alone when he was disillusioned, lost in cycles of joyous mania and musing depression. He would've played it off, cracked a joke, but Cas' expression was so... _Cas,_ he couldn't put the words together.

If he didn't say anything, maybe the moment wouldn't break, and he could forget that his friend was still mostly lost to him.

Then a smile washed over Cas' face, flashing teeth in a daze, and the angel stuck out cupped hands toward Dean. The hunter glanced at them (held level with his eyes, since Cas was seated atop the car) with slight uncertainty. "Uh..."

"Here." Cas prompted, bobbing his hands in a demanding but ultimately patient gesture.

"I don't -" Unable to resist the angel's furtive insistence, Dean reluctantly hovered his hands under Cas'. He wasn't totally sure what he thought would happen, but when Cas reverently opened his fingers and let a chubby, furry caterpillar drop onto Dean's palm, it was all he could do not to laugh.

The insect was a dark color, covered in thick tufts of fur, and it wiggled into a fearful ball that rolled around along the swells and dents in Dean's calloused hands.

"I plucked it from your Arctic Circle." Cas murmured, watching with a certain amount of awe as Dean awkwardly cupped his palms to keep the thing from rolling off. "This creature is almost ten years old. Isn't that just... amazing?"

"Uh... Yeah, Cas." Dean was barely listening at first, too completely distracted by the fact he was holding a _worm._ "Sure."

The angel seemed to notice he wasn't paying attention, ducking his head to better catch Dean's gaze. "It freezes almost solid, and then just... wakes up when it's warmer. And it's fine! Isn't that amazing?" His speech got rapid and urgent as though he were imparting crucialinformation. "Why would my Father give such a fragile thing such incredible ability?"

Slowly glancing from the worm to Castiel, Dean couldn't have made his bewilderment more clear. His patience was running thin, though he didn't know if he had much patience left in him at all these days. "You wanna reel in the crazy and tell me why you're here?"

He knew his tone got harsh, but he couldn't bring himself to care. New Cas had a way of testing his temper... and new Cas also got his feelings hurt like a little bitch. Any hint of his frenetic smile dropped right off his face, and the angel lowered his trenchcoated shoulders and sulkily touched a fingertip to the still-squirming caterpillar.

The thing disappeared without so much as a pop, and Dean was left wiping his hands on his jeans. "Did you just zap a bug back to Canada?"

"It's safe." Cas confirmed, dropping his elbows to his knees and looking down at his crossed ankles. The angel didn't seem to have any interest in changing out of his white patient wear. Except, anyway, for the time he appeared wearing nothing but a squirming layer of bees. "It's back home."

"Oh, well, that's just great. The bug's home safe. Your new priorities are just awesome, Cas." Yeah, Dean was sour, and childish, and he had every damn right to be. He rubbed across his forehead, trying to wring out the annoyance from his eyebrows before he gave himself a headache.

Cas' expression went utterly confused, head ticking to the side like a dog, and Dean wasn't in the mood for it. He turned himself and slid back into the car. Settling onto the seat, Dean finally took a moment to compose himself, rubbing sleep from his eyes and straightening his clothes out on his body. "Why'd you call me?"

Castiel appeared in the passenger seat with the barest flit of wings. The angel looked at Dean with that drugged half-smile, slowly pushing his hands against his knees. It only took a few beats of silence before Dean's face started into expectant frustration, brows shrugging up and lips dragging toward agitation.

Seeing Dean's irritation snapped Cas' smile off his face again. "The, um, the caterpillar -" Cas started, anxiously, and Dean jabbed a finger at him in a threatening gesture that just dared him to change the subject. Deflating, Castiel laced his fingers together between his thighs and sighed, airlessly.

"You're angry." the angel mumbled, stilted and uncomfortable and faintly pathetic. "I keep... making you angry. I'm sorry."

Dean felt the urge for a drink come on like a cold chill. Dealing with Cas face to face brought up emotions Dean didn't know how to parse, couldn't handle. It was easier when he had thought Cas was dead and it was just another thing to shove under the rug. Sweat out the guilt like a bad fever when no one could see.

There had been maybe a half-hour where 'Emmanuel' had ceased to exist and Castiel had returned. Dean had been desperate to get Cas to Sam, at any cost, and get Sam healed. If it meant keeping up the charade, he'd lie through his damn teeth. Saving his brother had thrummed through his veins like lifeblood, like _meaning,_ like it always did. Saving his relationship with Cas had come far, far second.

Then Cas was back, and fuming with self-loathing, marching away like he might walk himself all the way to the river and drown himself for good this time. The angel could barely meet Dean's eyes, could barely speak without his upper lip twitching and curling in disgust, like his own voice made him sick.

No amount of anger could blind Dean to the angel's pain, and he wanted to be able to forgive him. He wished he was strong enough to - or that his sense of betrayal, of mistrust, was weaker. When Dean handed him that musty old trenchcoat, he'd meant it as a second chance.

A plea to fix his baby brother, yes, but a second chance, too.

That went on the back-burner the minute Cas went comatose... and now, Dean felt almost as distant from Crazy Cas as he did from Emmanuel Cas. It made him angry, and sad, and a hundred other things he didn't want to even think about. Half the time, he felt like he was blaming a stranger for a dead man's crimes.

Crazy Cas could barely focus long enough to hold a coherent conversation. That, and he cared more about seemingly everything except taking the second chance Dean offered him. He wouldn't even help them fix his damn mess - no, he just 'watched the bees.'

"Yeah, you keep saying that like it means something." The hunter raised his arm and draped his elbow against the car door, bracing his weight there and reaching a hand to rub down his face in one squeezing gesture. "You here for a reason? If you aren't, then I'm busy, so go play with Meg. She can actually handle your crap."

Dean genuinely expected Cas to leave. He threw his voice into a tone that was crueler than it might've been otherwise, hoping it would be enough to send the gun-shy angel fleeing.

It wasn't.

Castiel's eyes squinted a little. "... You prayed."

"What?" Dean scoffed, completely twisting to face his body toward the angel. He explained it as if to a child, slow and firm; "No, I didn't. I was sleeping, Cas."

That seemed to amuse the angel, a stifled laugh escaping his throat. "Prayers aren't always 'Hail Mary, amen', you know. It's not all -" Punctuating his point by flattening his hands together in front of his chin, Castiel adopted a fairly spot-on imitation of Dean. "'Cas, get your feathery ass down here, pronto.'"

Cas shook his head, turning his chin to muse out of the car window. His eyes tilted up toward the sky, brows lowering into a squint as the glare from a streetlight slanted into his pupils. "I don't know why you say that. It's silly." he commented, getting lost again, a smile slowly forming as he eyed his own reflection in the glass.

Flexing his fingers in a frustrated gesture, Dean wanted more than anything for some peace and quiet. But, now he was invested, and he wanted an answer. "Okay. So that means...?"

"Birds have feathers on their... I'm not a bird."

It took everything Dean had not to slam his hands on the steering wheel. He was too tired for this, and Castiel's voice was making him angry. "The praying thing, Cas. Focus."

Shooting a glance at him that was just slightly put out, Castiel reached a hand out across the seat, far enough to point toward Dean's head. Half expecting the angel to poke his nose, Dean almost - _almost_ \- slapped Cas' hand down, but the angel stopped just short of too close.

"In your sleep." Castiel finally supplied. "It only happens when you dream about -" His mouth tightened, almost abashed, twisting that pointed finger to indicate downwards with shrugged shoulders. It was an infantile gesture, and it took Dean a moment to understand. He wasn't pointing at the car underneath them, or the asphalt underneath it.

He was pointing _down._

Down - and down, and down.

"It's probably because I pulled you out. You're just hoping it'll happen in your dream... anyone would want to skip to the part where they get saved." Cas looked away again, out the car window, missing the way Dean went white-knuckled into closed fists and a muscle ticked in his jaw, alive with rising anger. "I could hear you, and Sam told me where you were."

"If you knew -" Dean had to roll his tongue over his teeth and pop his lips just to release some of the tension in his voice. "If you knew it was a dream, then why bother coming? What, you're unavailable when I'm marching my ass on a suicide run to kill Dick, but I have a nightmare and suddenly you're on frickin' speed dial?"

"I can't fight. I can't." It was what he always said, short and sharp and insistent, and Dean's eyes rolled up viciously in their sockets. The next part was softer: "But... this was something I could... I could do. You wanted me to make it stop, and I could. I feel more now, Dean, I felt your..." He stopped, and Dean was damn glad, because if Cas had said something like 'fear' he might've truly punched him. Broken hand be damned. "Dean, Alastair -"

"Is dead." Dean spat out, jaw going wild and clenched with emotions he didn't want to tap into, not when the demon's voice was still clear as a bell in his head. "He's long dead. And I'm not gonna talk about it." He had to inhale, had to force fresh air into his lungs because just mentioning Alastair made him feel light-headed. "Cas, I can handle a damn dream. What I can't handle is you in my head, pretending you give a damn."

Cas didn't look at him. His head twitched like he wanted to, and Dean could see his face in the reflection on the window. The angel's scruffy features melted into something sad, something fractured. His eyes fell toward the street. "I just wanted to help."

Dean sighed, heavy and agitated, tipping his head back to press it against the headrest of his seat. He closed his eyes, taking some solace in the decreased stimulus of the darkness behind his lids. As much as he wanted to hold onto his fury, Cas sounded so damn broken - and it was still Cas. He wanted to pretend it wasn't, but it was never that simple.

Castiel. The angel who cared. Too much, too little, sometimes somewhere in-between. Dean had said it to Kevin, and he'd damn well meant it: Angels didn't have the equipment to care, and when they did, it seemed to just break them apart.

"You know how you can help me, Cas. You know _exactly_ how. And it ain't popping in every time but the times I actually need you." His voice wasn't harsh anymore, not really. Just factual, and tired, and maybe fractionally pleading. "We're killing Dick. Be there."

Dean felt the brush of a hand against his forearm, gentle on the fabric of his jacket sleeve. It startled him - but by the time he opened his eyes, the angel was gone. The air disturbed by Cas' ethereal wings flickered past Dean's face, and there was another useless, distant apology on the wind.

Nothing was ever as simple as Dean Winchester wanted it to be.


	2. Season 8 Episode 3

There was something in the air conditioner.

Maybe it was a shred of paper, or a leaf. Dean didn't know; didn't care. All he knew was it made a shuffling sound when the air hit it just right.

It would catch the breeze in random patterns, sometimes fluttering wildly, sometimes just ticking once as it got plastered against the inside of the AC unit. It left him hanging on the edge of every moment of silence, waiting for the next time it'd shift.

The funny thing about silence was how it always betrayed itself. The more the quiet encroached, the more Dean's ears prickled - the more his brain hunted for meaning in nothing. His senses doubled, tripled, grew in exponential leaps and bounds until his skin crawled and his heartbeat pumped in his throat.

The air conditioner itself let off the softest purr, but he could handle that. It was predictable and steady. He could blend it into the white noise, force his brain to tune it out... but that damn scrap of paper rustled, loud. Unexpected. It could've been the soft shift of leaves under someone's boot. Could've been someone's shoulder brushing against the trunk of a tree. Could've been - could've been -

His head was still in Purgatory.

A muscle twitched under his eye, and Dean had to force himself to unclench his curled fingers. He stood up out of his chair in one swift motion, hardly noticing as his body just  _moved._ Pacing the length of the motel room, back and forth, Dean muttered, "Damnit, Sam. How long does it take..."

But, he trailed off because the words didn't matter.

It had been a few weeks now, and he still felt like he was on a high he couldn't quite get under control. Sleeping was hard, relaxing was harder, and all he wanted was to fight something. There was adrenaline pumping through his veins, and he couldn't very well fight a slip of paper in an air conditioner.

Dean scanned the room as he moved, but he barely took in what his eyes landed on. His body was a coiled well of energy and being alone in a quiet motel room was torturous. Sam was getting them dinner, and Dean wished he'd hurry up. As mixed as their relationship had become lately, he'd have taken Sam's company over being alone any day. He felt more in control around Sam, calmer.

He had to be. Sam made him keep his game face on - always had.

Flicking his tongue against his lower lip, Dean slid a hand to retrieve Ruby's knife from an inner pocket of his jacket. He felt better a sharp instrument in his hands, flexing his fingers around the handle and letting the flat of the blade tap arrhythmically against his thigh as he paced.

Kevin was in the wind with his mother. Sammy was itching to get out. Crowley had the Demon Tablet. Castiel had been left to die in Purgatory. Those were the facts laid out before him - all of which, indirectly or directly, were his fault. It was a messy web of mistakes that all led back to him.

Dean's free hand lifted up, scratching at his scalp, rubbing down his face. They'd just spent the last few days hunting down cursed organs, and it was a case that weighed on him. His wounds were still healing from Randa Monroe nearly digging her fingers right into his chest cavity, and when he rubbed a palm over his breastbone, the pain burned like a steadying bracer.

He knew the drug of being a warrior. Of fighting, and surviving only by strength and grit and skill. He got it. The difference between the winner and the loser was as clear-cut as who was still breathing. Hunting tapped into that, but Purgatory was something else.

In Purgatory, no one slept, or ate, or got tired, or weak - they just killed until something killed them.

_shffff-_

Dean marched across the room in one ferocious charge. Upon reaching the wall, he lashed out with the toe of his boot, kicking the AC unit so hard it rattled on its brackets. There was a chugging slosh before it settled, and Dean was lucky not to have broken the thing.

The rustling didn't happen again.

Without thinking, Dean let his hand paw into his jacket and dig his cellphone out. He flipped through menus, eyes darting from the screen toward the front door, and when he reached his contacts list he just scrolled through them, idly. Up, down, up, down, flicking his finger against the touchscreen so the words spun by like a slots reel.

Floating somewhere above pacing legs, Dean had the presence of mind to wonder when things had gotten so upside-down and inside-out that he had a vampire's phone number saved on his phone. He pretended to weigh his options. He put on a show like he was hesitating. He knew he should have been.

Then he stopped the spinning text with a jab of his fingertip, and crawled his way up the alphabet until he found Benny's number. It was half-heartedly disguised under 'B,' because that could've been some girl named Barbara or Becca in a faraway state, and not a monster.

Hitting the call button felt like an accident, like the pad of his finger slipped. It rang three times before Dean even bothered to put it up to his cheek. He'd halted, no longer pacing, and listened to the chirping in his ear.

The connection must've been a millisecond away from going to voicemail when there was a sudden, jarring silence, and the rustle of mechanized breath.

"Hey, Chief."

That easy Cajun drawl brought Dean's shoulders down, took some of the starch out of his body. Benny sounded tired and slower than usual, even for his casual timbre, and Dean returned, "Bad time?"

"Here I thought you hunters knew your lore by heart. Gettin' rusty?"

It clicked just slightly too late; there was still a few hours of daylight left in Boulder, and who knew what timezone the vamp was in. Moving toward the window, Dean thumbed the curtains open and leaned in. He let his eyes search the parking lot in slow passes, examining the sky first, then scanning for Sam. "Nah. Just didn't think you needed your beauty rest."

Benny's chuckle was easy and low, one rough exhale that carried the shape of his grin. "Dean... It's real good to hear from you, man, don't get me wrong, now. Thing is, last time I did, you were anglin' for space. This some hard-to-get thing, or... you in trouble?"

"No, I'm good. Fresh off a case, just -" Dean rolled his lips against each other, balked, half because he had no good excuse for why he was breaking his own agreed-upon silence, and half because the ease with which he could have spilled his guts bothered him.

Benny offered, "Checkin' on me?", and Dean could tell it was for his benefit; breaking the silence, shifting the focus. "I'm stayin' clean. You know me. I'm livin' all non-profit donation style."

"Yeah." Dean's eyes crinkled at the edges, a smile that didn't quite reach his mouth. A conflict raged somewhere, distantly, because trusting Benny as much as he did had made sense in Purgatory where everything was black and white, and Benny had earned his place. Now, under the light of day...

Dean wasn't sure where he stood. Wasn't sure where he wanted to stand. Just knew he felt out of place, like a ghost fading in and out of sight, and Benny understood.

"Man, it's crazy over here." The smile did spread, twisting up the edges of Dean's mouth, and he let off a half-laugh, hearing the strain in his own voice. "You miss when things were simple?"

"Every day, bub." The vamp's response was calm; unassuming.

Shifting his spine until he could rest a shoulder against the cool window glass, Dean watched the dim shape of a stranger make their way across the parking lot. "Got people lining up to get the hell out these days. It feels like I'm losing more than I'm winning right now."

"This about the angel?"

It wasn't - but of course it was. It was about Sam, it was about Kevin, but damn if it wasn't about Cas. Benny hadn't said a word to Dean about Cas, not when they got out, and not any time inbetween, til now. The vamp had always harboured his doubts about whether the Seraph could make it through the escape hatch, and Cas' absence had spoken for itself.

"Benny..." was all Dean could vocalize, and it was spoken like a warning.

Benny was no good at heeding warnings. "Come on, Dean. You don't think you did your best? Speakin' as the one who tried to talk you out of it, you fought to get him outta there. To get us both out."

Dean tilted his head until his temple pressed into the glass, enjoying the cold pressure. It distracted from the feeling brewing somewhere beneath his ribs - the heat, the clench, the needle-sharp pain. He lifted his knife-gripping hand, spreading his fingers. They were shaking.

When he looked at them, all he could see was Cas' dirty hand clasped hard with his - then slipping away. Purgatory ate Cas up, then spat Dean out. The angel's last words had been screaming his name, and Dean had never felt so numb. "I fought like hell, Benny. I didn't let him go."

"I know, brother. Hell, I'm living proof. You carried a vamp home in your own flesh'n'blood; you can't tell me you wouldn't've gone the mile for that angel. It just went bad. Y'all knew it might."

Closing his eyes for just a moment, Dean tried to listen to the other man. He wished it made the knot in his chest unwind, or took the crushing weight he felt on his shoulders away. Setting Ruby's knife down on the windowsill, the hunter pushed his hand into the deep right pocket of his jeans. "Yeah. Just... wish it hadn't gone that way."

There was a rustle on the line, and Benny exhaled softly, drawling voice like syrup and succor. "Break'd do you good, sounds like. Buy you a beer if you come down south." Dean chewed on the tip of his tongue, and the silence was more than long enough for Benny to understand.

"Oh, I forgot. Hunter's too good to sit down with a vamp, huh?"

"It's the plot to a bad buddy-cop movie, Benny." The vamp chuckled at Dean, all rasp and chaff and good nature, but said nothing. "You know it isn't about..." Dean trailed off, because there was no use dancing this dance; they both knew all the steps before they took them.

Benny brought Purgatory rushing back, and it was a good feeling. Benny understood where he came from and where he'd been. They were warriors from the same battlefield, and their bond was one of blood and pain and fighting back to back, Benny's keen whistle playing them on like an anthem that Dean could still hear in his bones.

But it wasn't about them. It was about being back in a world where things weren't cut and dry anymore, and Dean had to confront the fact that their friendship was alien here - should've been alien to him.

"I've got a lot going on right now, and Sammy wouldn't... get it. Hell, when this is all over, I'm not even sure if he's sticking around." Dean laughed a little, but it was a humorless, deflecting sound. The idea of Sam walking away and not looking back after Dick Roman dragged him and Cas to Purgatory had been hard to swallow. The idea of Sam doing it a second time, now that they were a team again...

"Sounds like a story there, Dean."

Thumbing against the bottom of his shirt, Dean lowered his chin, and there was a wryness to his tone when he spoke. "Always does." The blaring eyes of his Impala came flashing into sight around the corner, and Dean let off a breath as he watched his brother pull into the motel parking lot.

When the Impala parked, Dean backed away from the window, turning his back on the glass. "Look, we'll meet up some time, alright, Benny? Once I settle the job I'm on right now. But I gotta go, Sam's here."

"Mm." It was a quiet noise, low and whiskey-sharp. "You know how to get me. Keep your chin up, Chief."

"You, too, Benny."

Dean pulled the phone from his ear and hung up, turning the phone over in his palm a few times. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, finding a calm expression to fit over his face before Sam arrived.

His brother ducked into the room, pushing the door shut with his shoulder. "Got grub." He was all scruffy cheeks and pensive eyes, sparing a glance toward Dean as his hand shuffled into the bag under his arm. Sam didn't miss the phone in his hand - nor did he miss the knife sitting on the windowsill.

He scooped out a wrapped burger, holding it toward his brother. "Call someone?"

"You took long enough." It wasn't a lie, not an explicit one, but he huddled behind the false implication that the phone was out because he'd been considering calling Sam. Dean extricated his hand from his pocket and stuck it up, and Sam tossed the wrapped bundle his way.

His giant of a brother made a fairly noncommittal noise when Dean caught and half-saluted with the hamburger. Sam crossed the motel room to take a seat on the edge of his bed and start laying out his meal. He moved slow, methodical, pulling out a covered salad and utensils. He didn't look up toward Dean again.

Dean stayed where he was, looking out the window and peeling away just enough of the wrapper to reveal a mouth-sized sliver of his burger that he could sink his teeth into. The taste of beef and barbeque grounded him in something real, something concrete, and the next bite was big enough to choke him a little.

They spent most of the night without speaking, but Sam's presence kept the silence at bay, at least. Dean wasn't sure what he did for Sam anymore.

Dean was stuck in Purgatory, and Sam was stuck in the arms of a girl a few states away.


	3. Season 8 Episode 7

Nothing put Dean at ease like being behind the wheel of the Impala, one hand on the wheel and arm draped over the back of the front seat. When he was driving his baby, he was invincible. The chrome and paint and leather was all just an extension of his body, familiar and fitted. He moved with it, leaning into the turns and slouching back at ease when the asphalt uncoiled and there was nothing but stock-straight highway snaking forward into the horizon. 

He could drive for the rest of his life and never stop. It made him think of Heaven. 

The angels knew what they were doing with that, if nothing else. 

Sam had been glancing at him on-and-off since they'd gotten in the car. Dean was ignoring it, mostly because he got a kick out of his brother's slow descent into madness. Sam's face was lost in a gentle look, pinching his lips and brows, constantly cycling his eyes from Dean to the dash to the window to Dean to the dash to - 

Pretending not to notice, Dean casually shifted his arm off the back of the bench seats and reached down to flick on some music. His best Zeppelin tape poured from the speakers, and Dean let his thumbs match the drum beat against the steering wheel. 

Sam's eyes rolled hard enough to send his whole head sweeping upwards. Drowning his little brother out with classic rock was just about integral to surviving days-long road trips. The fact that it irritated him was just an added perk.

It was all part of a long-standing game: Sam stared at him, all full to the brim with _emotions_ and yearning to _talk_ and Dean gunned it down the highway with the music blaring until Sam either gave up or spoke up. The former was a point in Dean's corner, and the latter opened up opportunities to razz Sam for even trying. Which, naturally, was also a point in Dean's corner. 

Sometimes it backfired on him, but Dean preferred to dwell on the hundred times it didn't. 

Expression solidly shifting into pinched annoyance, Sam reached out and twisted the volume knob until the song was just a quiet croon from the speakers, a distant bassline. "Dean... Seriously? We're not talking about this?" 

"Seriously? Don't touch the tunes." Dean moved his hand to return the knob to its original position and then some. Bobbing his chin to the now-blaring "Ramble On," Dean gave a smirk of self-satisfaction to the windshield when his actions only deepened the frowning dimples in Sam's thinned cheeks. 

Sam shook his head slowly, disgruntled. Brushing his hair away from his forehead and tucking it hard behind his ear, he sunk down in his seat, reaching between his knees to the satchel lying on the floorboard. He dug around in it for a moment before pulling out a newspaper. 

Point - Dean. 

An out-of-tune hum buzzed at the bottom of Dean's throat, gazing forward down the road and letting his arm relax over the back of the seats again. Sam digging into research next to him, Baby rumbling under him - everything was back to normal. 

Everything would be back to normal, if Dean had to trim it to shape himself. 

Sam lifted a hand in a sudden 'hey-hey' gesture, just in Dean's peripheral. Shooting a glance his way, Dean arched up a brow expectantly. When his brother pointed a finger down at the newspaper opened against his knees, he exhaled a little. "Spot a case already?" he asked, voice significantly raised to be heard over the music. His younger sibling nodded without raising his head.

Obligingly, Dean flicked the music off with a thumb, egging Sam on with a wave of his hand.

In the abrupt silence, Sam flattened the paper out with a quick flap of the pages, stating in authoritative tones; "Man bashes brother's head in for being a stubborn jerk." 

Point - Sam. 

"Funny." Wrinkling his nose in his best faux-smile, Dean thrust out his hand, fully intending to turn his tape back on. Sam was unfortunately faster, and slapped his palm over the controls to block him. 

"Dean, come on." Sam threw up a flat gesture with his other hand. "Cas shows up, out of the blue, and you get a hernia trying to come up with reasons for it being a trick." Dean did not appreciate that, but Sam was a force of nature these days, and he wasn't done. "Now, what, you guys are fine? Just like that? I'm glad, don't get me wrong. But if he's coming with us, I want to know what's going on. I deserve to know what's going on with you, for once." 

Waving openly with the hand on the wheel, keeping his palm flat to the leather, Dean shrugged. "What can I say? I'm changeable." 

Sam snorted, jaw tensing as his mouth went into a thin line. "That's a word for it." he muttered, licking his lips when Dean shot him a warning squint. "Seriously. What'd you guys talk about back there? He said you were setting things straight." 

"You think we can skip this part? I'm about filled up on the sharing and caring, Noah. We got work to do." 

Sam rubbed at his forehead with the flat of his thumb. "Dean, can you -" He stopped, full-force, and turned to eye Dean with something near horror, but nearer to amusement. "Did you just reference _The Notebook?_ _"_   Dean wasn't about to answer that. He rolled his tongue against the backs of his teeth and looked out across the rolling hills surrounding them. 

Fortunately - or unfortunately - Sam had different priorities, and gave up quickly. Shrugging with both arms, Sam started folding up the newspaper. "You've been miserable thinking you left Cas in Purgatory. I've been here, remember? It was eating you up, just like it ate you up before, and him showing up didn't make it better. It made it worse. You say you two are okay, but... Did you guys talk?" 

"What do you want from me, huh, Sam?" Dean put both hands on the wheel now, rooting himself, holding the Impala steady as his foot pressed down with subconscious force. The engine revved up to a roar, and it almost calmed him down. "Yeah, we talked. Had a big pow-wow." 

Sam didn't say a word. Just gave him a wide shrug that screamed, _'and?'_ , and looked at him like he was dense. 

"He stayed, okay?" This was among the last topics of conversation Dean wanted to broach, but he knew the nuances of his little brother more than enough to know this was one of those times when Sam had no intention of letting it go. "I didn't leave him. He stayed." 

Relaxing a little now that he'd won out, Sam took ahold of the now-folded bundle of newsprint and started patting it against his knee, an idle and vaguely nervous gesture. "So, that means it wasn't your fault, right?" A snort escaped Dean before he could stop it, a hollow smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "What? You were beating yourself up about leaving him behind. It sounds like you didn't." 

"Yeah. Awesome." Dean tapped his fingers in a dull drumroll, tone going sour. "We done?" 

He wasn't sure why he bothered to ask. Sam had his pitying eyes on full blast; it was the look he usually reserved for mourning witnesses. "Am I missing something here, Dean?" 

Dean let his foot ease off the gas before they rocketed into speeds surpassing even his recklessness. "Look, you expect me to be thrilled to hear that he decided to stay in Purgatory? He knew how hard I fought to get..." Squeezing on the steering wheel in a slight strangling motion, the elder hunter sighed with a clenched jaw. "But instead of _trusting_ me to make things right, he sat his ass out in Purgatory." 

"'Make things right'?" Sam echoed, brows twitching up. "No offense, Dean, but you don't put a band-aid on what Cas did." Dean's shoulders immediately went up in a defensive shift, because _yes,_ but that wasn't the _point -_ but Sam waved him down. "I'm not saying I'm angry with him, I'm saying he's not going to forgive himself that easy." 

That made Dean's temper flare higher, gesturing hard with a finger. "Bullshit. We get together, we work it out. That's what family does. That's what we do, Sam. That's what he should have done back before the Leviathans, and it's what he should have done here." 

"You always say that, Dean, but it's not always that simple." Tossing the newspaper to the floorboards, Sam draped one arm against the car door. He shook his head, glancing out the window, and there was a long period of silence. Dean flexed and shifted the muscles in his frame, curling his tongue against his cheek with an irritated sigh. 

As much as he wanted to believe the conversation was over, Dean didn't relax; he could just sense there was more brewing in that giant head of Sam's. 

Sure enough, it came out a few minutes later. 

"He's the one who has to live with himself, not you. You don't sleep off nearly ending the world, Dean. Maybe being exiled to Purgatory was the only way he thought he could make up for everything, the only way he thought he could forgive _himself._ It has nothing to do with you, Dean." 

Dean's gut went hard - it was a little too close to home, a little too pinpoint accurate. Castiel couldn't find forgiveness with him. Sam didn't see a future with him. Kevin and Mrs. Tran had to be dragged back, kicking and screaming, because they didn't feel safe with him. 

It all had to do with Dean. Over and over, it all had to do with Dean. He was tired of trying to convince people to stick around, but more than that, he was tired of watching them leave anyway. 

"Can you stop pretending you're just talking about Cas right now?" Dean raised his voice, sharp with irritation, and Sam's eyes rolled. "You saved the world by jumping into the Pit. He stayed behind because it was easier than facing his mistakes, it's _that_ simple. Don't get this all -" Dean gestured dismissively with one hand. "- mixed up with your crap." 

Sam rapped his knuckles against the window, glancing sideways at his brother. He stared for a quiet length of time, brows twitching in and out of deep thought. "Let me know when you want to talk about this for real." Sam finally returned, just a petulant mutter, and Dean shot him a dangerous glance. 

"That supposed to mean something?" 

His brother shifted his body in a flopped shrug, head resting against the window, and it was an all-too-familiar gesture. "Sam?" Rolling over and going to sleep was Sam's usual response to conflict during a road trip. 

"Fine, jackass." Dean muttered, easing low in his seat and scowling ahead at the highway. He let his right hand fall and grasp at his thigh, squeezing idly at a flourishing bruise through his jeans, while his left hand slid to the very bottom point of the steering wheel.  

He'd prayed to Castiel every night in Purgatory. He hadn't even truly known if the angel could hear him in that in-between-place, but without fail, he'd prayed. Not for help, though. Never for help. For a year, it had been the same damn thing, over and over: 

 _'I'm gonna find you, Cas. I'm gonna get us back home. So don't die out there, you son of a bitch.'_  

It had been a promise, and Cas had made him break it, because staying had been _easier._ But for who? It sure as Hell hadn't been easier for Dean, and knowing that it had been a conscious decision on the angel's part hadn't made it easier, either. 

Point - friggin' Sam. 

Dean couldn't have clenched his jaw any tighter without breaking a few teeth, quietly glancing over toward his brother. Sam's upturned shoulder was an impassive wall that didn't give an inch. The silent treatment was a torture tactic, Dean swore, but there was an easy solution for that.  

He reached out to turn on the radio, more than content to blast Sam out of his seat with more Zeppelin.  

"Hello." 

The rough gravel of Castiel's voice - somehow concerned and impassive at the same time, all wrapped up in sandpaper - sent both Winchesters jumping out of their skin. "Jesus!" echoed between them in perfect chorus. The Impala made a sharp jerk to the side, but Dean recovered and the empty road offered more than enough bare asphalt to swerve across before he got it straightened out.  

Cas' tremendously blue eyes peered at them through the rear-view mirror, seeming completely undisturbed by the car's fierce lurch. Dean swore under his breath, slamming his palm against the wheel in vague frustration, and Sam used both his hands to rub at his face. 

"Warning, Cas." the elder hunter muttered. "For the millionth time... warning." 

"My apologies." Leaning forward, Castiel placed his elbows on the top of the front seat, coat bunching up around his neck. He glanced between the brothers, talking in calm and even tones before they'd fully recovered. "Your friend collected Kevin and his mother before the police arrived. The other Prophets were... distressed, but they will probably be fine." 

Sam nodded his head, raking fingers over the top of his head to force his hair back. "Good. Thanks for staying with them, Cas." He flashed a smile at the angel. Cas tipped his head in acknowledgement, and didn't seem to notice that it was Sam's _strained_ smile. 

"He... attempted to hug me. It was... awkward." 

Dean kept his gaze riveted forward, even when that image almost made him chuckle. Almost. "Yeah, he does that." At his voice, Cas slowly ticked his eyes across the cabin and onto Dean. His skin prickled at the feeling of the angel's eyes on him, and he rolled his shoulders before uttering, "We'll hit the next town, get some food, re-organize. We need a bead on Crowley, ASAP." 

"Of course, Dean. We will find him." Castiel eased back against his seat, and as his body relaxed into the cushions, Dean risked a glance into the rear-view mirror. Exhaustion crept into the angel's features as he seemed to slowly lose focus; he wasn't at full strength yet. 

Dean had meant the statement as a reason for Cas to go. Start the search on Crowley; put out feelers; go chat up the God Squad. He was about to clarify, too, but looking at Cas made Dean change his mind. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a kind of lost look drifting on his features.

The angel was weak, and he hadn't been out of Purgatory as long as Dean had. Maybe some rest (as much as an angel rested) would do him good, where they could watch over him. Dean traded a glance with Sam. His brother's eyes said exactly the same thing back to him.

Returning his gaze to the windshield, Dean inhaled sharply through his nose and tried to muster some sort of calm. Cas was back, and whole, and sane, and maybe there was no catch this time. Maybe he'd stick around, and things would get easier. Maybe Dean would eventually feel less torn between guilt and suspicion every time he so much as looked his way.  

Maybe the other shoe wouldn't drop this time. Team Free Will, back in action.  

Dean turned the radio on and scanned through the stations until he found one playing soft rock. 

Good things did happen, supposedly.


	4. Season 8 Episode 7 (con't)

Grabbing supplies from a convenience store was generally an uneventful affair. The Winchesters had grown up bouncing between hotels and gas stations, so the gasoline fumes and stacks of candy and beef jerky all added up to something homey.

There was comfort in it, familiarity. Grocery stores were full of the cloying presence of things that made him uneasy, full of memories he kept chained in the depths of his gut. Gas stations didn't remind him of Ben trying to sneak a bag of Rolos into their cart, or of Lisa showing him how to pick ripe vegetables.

Gas stations were for drifters, and Dean was nothing if not a drifter. Grab some fuel for body and engine, then go. In, out. Easy.

Dean snagged a power bar off a rack (because the only thing Sam liked more than a wuss salad was a fruity granola bar) before striding up to the front counter. He passed a fast smile and a "Hey" to the spectacled highschooler manning the register, setting his pie and Sam's snack down.

The kid's response amounted to a dull stare before he set to scanning Dean's purchases.

Clearing his throat, Dean turned half away and started fishing for his wallet to thumb out a ten. He glanced to the side, and it took him a minute of scanning the store to spot the top of Castiel's head weaving slowly and methodically through the aisles.

Dean pressed his tongue against his teeth and whistled, softly, to catch the angel's attention. It was his recon whistle, so short and subtle it could almost be dismissed as ambient noise if you weren't listening for it. Cas halted in his tracks, then stretched up. His half-squinted, distant gaze found Dean over a crumpled row of chip bags.

He really wasn't sure what was funnier - an angel wandering around a gas station like a lost kid, or one prairie dogging over the rack.

Pointing down to the floor next to his feet to usher Cas over to him, Dean returned his eyes forward. Sliding the ten across the counter, the hunter watched with an edge of disbelief as the cashier managed to make counting out his change look like a Herculean trial.

Cas' hand brushed against his jacket sleeve, less a request for his attention and more the accidental contact that spawned all-too-often from his issues with space. Spinning at the waist, he was confronted with Castiel, wielding an Utz bag a little too close to his face.

"Dean… I'm not certain I know what the rind of a pig is. If it's an analogy to cheese, or fruit, I -"

Lifting up his hands to stop him, Dean pushed the bag down. "It's skin, Cas. Fried pig skin." The angel seemed fairly intrigued by that answer, glancing through the transparent plastic at the crisped curls. "Put that back, man."

Cas was unbothered by the chastisement, eyes flicking between the bag and Dean with some interest. He turned with a stiff obedience, walking across the tile to return the bag to its proper place. Dean released a sigh as he moved his attention back to the cashier.

"Like a two year old." he said with a smile, all awkward crinkles and tight charm, filling in the teen's silence.

The cashier tore off the receipt from a small printer under the register, unceremoniously wadding it up with the change and thrusting it out to Dean. The hunter caught it all in a cupped hand and pocketed it, the paper and soft linen wadding together into a mingled ball, coins jingling at the center.

Dean slipped Sam's snack into his other pocket and snatched up his pie, the triangular box safe between his thumb and his palm. Turning away, he started for the door, lingering a bit with short strides so Cas could catch up.

When the angel finally came up beside him, Dean threw an arm over his shoulders and let the weight of it drag him along. The grip made them jostle, footsteps going askew as their weights settled into a new center of balance. He could've guessed that letting the guy loose in a store wasn't a grand idea; his curiousity just about outweighed his common sense.

"Am I gonna have to check your pockets?" Dean muttered sideways, quiet enough to just pass between them.

Cas didn't understand for a second, brows twitching together into a knot of uncertainty, glancing at Dean's face. When it clicked, vague affront touched the line of his stubbled jaw. "I do understand the concept of shoplifting, Dean."

"Sticky fingers, man. You can never tell." Dean pushed the door open with his knuckles, ignoring the jangle of the bell above his head. That solidly confused Castiel again, who spent the better part of the next few minutes rubbing his fingertips together at his thigh in a way that was faintly self-conscious.

Letting his arm fall off Cas' shoulders, Dean examined the small parking lot. It was empty aside from a few loitering construction workers hanging off their dusty Ford. He cut across the asphalt to where the Impala was parked. "Sam's still in the can." he noted, more for Cas than himself.

Hopping up onto the trunk, Dean relaxed his legs into a cross at the ankles, dropping his pie onto his lap. He left enough room for Cas to sit next to him, but the angel just stepped up next to the flank of the car and leaned against the dark metal instead.

"He seems different." the angel mused, the words light on the air, unassuming.

Dean offered little more than a shrug. "Who doesn't?" he said. That seemed to be enough for Cas, who nodded once.

Cracking open his pie box and grabbing up the utensil packet nestled inside, Dean fisted it and stabbed the end against his thigh. The tines of the fork popped up through the plastic, and he yanked it free and twirled it around his thumb to wield it. Dean used the fork to separate a chunk of pie from the slice and scrape it up, popping it into his mouth with gusto.

The gush of cherry was enough to make him release a pleased sound, humming in his throat. Cas glanced at him over his shoulder, and the angel's expression folded, landing between curiousity and something else.

It was Cas' unique brand of fondness, of soft admiration, blunt and indiscriminate. It made Dean uneasy. He always felt like he was catching a glimpse of something meant for someone else. Solidly changing the subject, Dean thrust up his cherry-stained plastic fork in a lazy gesture of triumph.

"You are missing out. Fatal flaw of angels: not eating. A good pie is a simple pleasure, Cas."

That struck Castiel hard enough to wipe that look off his face and replace it with a slight abashment, though his reply came easily. "We have more flaws than just that."

"You're tellin' me." Dean agreed, using his thumb to brush crumbs off the edge of his mouth. He licked his thumbtip clean in the same gesture, because using his napkin seemed a waste of perfectly good pie.

Folding his hands against his stomach, Cas tilted his head and averted his gaze, looking instead at his shoes. "It's good to be back. Isn't it, Dean?"

Dean shifted until he could thrust an elbow back and relax on it, moving the pie box to his belly instead and lazily stabbing off another chunk. "Yep." He shoved his mouth full, talking past crumbling crust and cherry gel that, hopefully, muffled some of his sincerity.

"Just ain't the same without our number one baby in a trenchcoat."

Castiel looked away and then up, watching the movement of clouds across the midday sky with the quiet reverence he always reserved for gazing on nature. He smiled, the expression visible in the crinkles at the edge of the eye Dean could still see.

"Besides, until we find Crowley -" Dean stopped to swallow, licking the tangy cherry taste off his teeth. "- you may as well third wheel it with us. World's first hunter angel. Nothing better to do, right?"

Neither of them noticed the fragment of a pause between Dean's statement and Castiel's response. Cas was there - and then he was far away. Maybe the space where he stood was empty in some distant facet of their reality. Maybe there was, in fact, a perceptible instant where the angel disappeared and Dean sat alone.

That instant mingled into a perfect and seamless harmony with the instant where Castiel smiled a little more, contentedly agreed, "Right.", and genuinely believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50% "I'm still alive even though DragonCon and applying for my BS ate up the last week of my life", 50% "Dealing with the ups and downs of Dean and Cas in season 8 is exhausting"
> 
> Add the cherry on top of Naomi being kind of a fascinating plot device.


	5. Season 8 Episode 10

The pull of prayer was something Castiel felt in his Grace. It was akin to a touch, though tentative and soft, easily ignored. The prayers of millions of supplicants fluttered within him, as regular as a heartbeat. 

They weren't praying to _him,_ of course – but open prayers reached out to all angels, vibrating out on impossible wavelengths, like a disturbance in a spider web. He could close his eyes and let the feeling guide him to the nearest voice.  

A mother holding a sick baby. A man facing down terminal illness. A woman praying for her sister to stop drinking. A child afraid of his father's rage. An elderly man clutching a lottery ticket. A younger woman clutching a plastic stick. 

(The latter two seemed to want very different results.) 

People prayed for all kinds of things, Castiel was quickly realizing. 

He'd always heard the thrum and pulse of prayer, but it was very rarely his concern.  The garrisons of Heaven hadn't spent their time tending to minor prayers, even before the narrowly-averted Apocalypse. There was the occasional miracle here and there, when Heaven deigned to expend some energy, but the pleas of their flock fell on mostly deaf ears. It had never bothered him before.

As he was discovering, nothing compared to walking the streets and doing good with his own two hands. There was a kind of peace in it. Perhaps a kind of penance. He didn't liken himself to Christ; in actuality, he found himself thinking more of the Winchesters. 

He aspired to be like them. Borne into loss, striving to do good even when the world kept laying on more and more suffering. 

Cas had scales in his chest now – the bad he'd done on one side, the good on the other. He'd taken lives in Heaven and on Earth, and it was a weight that constricted around him. He knew he was good, or desired to be, but it felt as if he'd been making mistake after mistake.

If he couldn't go back to Heaven 

“You can't, Castiel. Not yet.”

then he'd start with the debt he owed Earth. 

It was easier, and though a part of him didn't feel he deserved the easy road, he also wasn't sure if he could handle returning to Heaven. Whether they feared him or hated him, the idea of seeing his brothers and sisters again was a thought that struck wild terror in him.

The atrocities he had committed, high on the souls of Purgatory, might just have exiled him from his brethren forever. 

This was the best place for him now. This was the best he could do. He would repent and find forgiveness, one desperate prayer at a time. 

His wings carried him over miles, feathers fluttering against the very fabric of space. Once he started listening, the force of prayer washed over him like a tide, and it was almost hard to break free of the call. There was always someone else nearby. Sometimes he could help; sometimes he couldn't. Sometimes all he could do was reach out and touch them, his Grace suffusing through his fingertips, so they would feel the warmth and it might put them at ease. 

Castiel stood beside a young woman, listening patiently as she tearfully spoke of her husband at war in a far-away place. She was oblivious to his presence, whispering into clasped hands, speaking to a God who wasn't listening.

He was on the precipice of reaching out to lay a palm on her shoulder in comfort, when he felt it.

It wasn't a gentle tug. It was a sudden and fierce sensation, like a hand shooting out to grab him and burying fingers in the essence of him. He closed his eyes, body drawn into a taut line with the feeling.

People didn't pray to him. Praying to specific angels was rare. People prayed to God, or threw their hands up toward Heaven and prayed for help. A prayer directed just at him was something entirely different, and it sang in his Grace and reverberated through the very flesh of his vessel. 

It was a wordless pull, and he knew who it was before he even moved. 

One broad sweep of his wings landed him in the center of Rufus' cabin. He turned, eyes searching, and found Dean leaned with his head in the fridge. He was in the middle of stocking it, dragging groceries from a plastic bag and shoving them onto the shelves. 

The shape of the hunter's back was coiled and wrought, full of agitated energy. He didn't seem aware of the angel's presence, nor did he seem to expect him. Cas didn't need much more proof to know that Dean hadn't meant to reach out to him. 

Dean did it more often than he knew. His emotions would surge, and Castiel would catch the tail-end of his loneliness and taste the sour edge of longing. Cas didn't mind it; he felt warmed by the idea of Dean wanting his company, his presence. 

After all he'd done, the hunter still considered him a friend and still wanted him around. 

When Dean straightened up and shoved the fridge shut, Cas let his body filter between visual frequencies, hiding outside of the hunter's perception. Everything was made up of molecules and wavelengths. It wasn't that hard to change his own, and drift between light spectrums.

It was the same trick he'd used to spy on them when he was working with Crowley, though he didn't have the same intentions this time. 

A bottle of beer dangling against his thigh, Dean walked across the kitchen and toward the front room. He sighed and wiped down his face with a palm in a lingering gesture, rubbing his thumb against his cheek and massaging the frown off his mouth. Castiel pivoted to watch him move, head gently tilting, feeling the yearning ebb away as Dean shook off whatever thought had crossed his mind. 

Sam wasn't there, Cas noted, his senses prickling enough to confirm that there wasn't another soul nearby. Dean was alone. All the prayers of the world fell away, drifting back into a distant hum, and Cas followed the hunter's footsteps in ghosted silence. 

Cracking the cap off his beer as he walked, Dean grasped the neck of the bottle and slugged back a swallow. His free hand slipped down and pulled his cellphone from the deep right pocket of his jeans, giving the screen one short glance. 

"Damnit..."

Cas couldn't see it from his position behind Dean, but what was on the screen – or what wasn't – seemed to disappoint him. Dean's head shook, and he tossed the phone onto the coffee table as he rounded the sofa. 

He casually threw himself down onto the couch, toeing his boots loose and then kicking them clear across the living room. 

Cas stepped to one end of the couch, gazing down at Dean as the hunter propped his feet up against the arm and stuffed his beer between his waist and the back cushions. Crooking an arm under his head, Dean let his eyes drift off, losing focus. 

There was something in his expression that drew Cas' attention. Dean was fiercely protective of his emotions, but for a breath of time, his features reflected a turmoil. Years of wear and tear bled through the thin cracks in his stiff-lipped veneer, something twisting at his mouth and darkening the vibrantly flecked color of his green irises. 

When he sipped his beer, he swallowed it like it burned his throat. 

Castiel stared with calm patience, examining the way Dean's nose crinkled when he sniffed, and the strange mix of worry and anger that had set into his stubbled jaw. His lips were pursed in a discontented moue and his brows were tangled idly as if shading his eyes from the sun. 

He wondered how many burdens sat on Dean's shoulder in that moment. How many mistakes rolled themselves over in his mind? What was he thinking of? How far did Dean's pains stretch back? Perhaps they were both suffering the weight of the past.

The hunter never seemed to let go of anything. There was a yoke around his neck and a cart dragging behind his heels, and its load grew heavier and heavier. Cas admired his strength, but humanity was a fragile thing, and he would surely break one day.

There was little Cas could do – but he could do a little. 

Cas' head tilted ever-so-gently, and it took barely a flutter to set himself just beside the couch at Dean's shoulder. He reached down, and the pad of his middle finger grazed the space between Dean's eyebrows. There was only a beat of awareness of the touch before the hunter's eyes went hazy, then fluttered closed. His body went limp against the couch, all the tension washing from his face as sleep overcame him. 

A faint smile touched Cas' features, more in his eyes than on his lips. He let his head straighten out but failed to look away, content with the small peace he'd offered Dean: a little dreamless rest. 

Though he should have left, the angel found himself still staring. He knew full well Dean hated the idea of being watched as he slept, but he found his own kind of peace seeing the hunter at ease. 

Cas felt like he owed him. Despite all the sacrifices _he_ had made for Dean, there was a part of him that felt like Dean had taught him how to live. If not for him, Cas would've helped to usher on the Apocalypse and never have been the wiser. Dean had freed him, showed him the way, and it was a gift he couldn't pay back.

Dean was the embodiment of everything Castiel had come to value. Even his faith in God had faded – but never in Dean.

It was with detached curiousity that Cas noticed his hand had not moved. The realization made his fingers twitch, and he found himself tracing the line of Dean's thin brow. The hairs tickled his fingertip, soft and faint.

As the digit reached the end of his brow, Cas found the skin near his temple, and it was tremendously soft. A little lower, and he found stubbled flesh, rough and prickly. He could trace the faint hollow of Dean's cheek, just under his cheekbone.

The feeling was strange. He'd never touched Dean like that; never really touched anyone like that. His own brows twitched together, head cocking hard to the right as if his own movements intrigued him.

Dean was warm.

Cas retracted his hand, and flipped it to gaze at his digit, like he might see evidence of the touch there on his own fingertip. Confusion chimed out somewhere. He wanted to think it was a harmless gesture, a curious one - yet a part of him felt a deep and stirring wrongness. He shouldn't have done it.

That realization only deepened his confusion when coupled with the fact he was glad he did. 

“Castiel!” 

Naomi's palms slammed onto her desk, the impact launching her to her feet.

The suddenness of her motion startled Cas back in his seat, fearful at her advance. The bleach-white of her office burned his eyes.“I - ” was all he could say, slowly lowering his hand from where it hovered in the air. 

That wrongness crystallized into shame.

“Was the first time not enough to erase these ridiculous notions, Castiel?” 

She was angry, eyes widened and mouth caught in mixed disgust. When he tried to shift his gaze away from hers, her head tilted and dipped to follow, and he found he couldn't escape her.

“I don't...” His vision was dizzied and blurred. "Why... are you in my head?” He couldn't stop himself from saying it, even though some part of him felt he'd asked it a hundred times before.

The sensation made his skin crawl. 

Naomi lifted a finger toward him, severe. “There's work to be done, Castiel, and I won't allow you to be distracted from the mission. Least of all by the Winchester." She couldn't have said the name with more venom.

Feelings surged and fell away. "Distract...? He's not- I don't know what you mean. I don't know what's going on." Whiplash left a ringing in his ears and he spoke more honestly than he wanted to, his confusion raw and his fear moreso.

Naomi's eyes slitted, disdainful yet bored. She spoke as if Castiel wasn't talking, like his words meant little to her, and she was talking more for her own benefit. "You aren't the first angel to fall for a human. You're just the first that's more valuable to Heaven with some of your agency left."

That cut cold through him. He knew the threat inlaid in her words should have frightened him, but his head was a jumbled mess around _'fell for a human.'_ There was something tremendous behind those words, vast and wild and almost indecipherable.

It felt like an answer to a question.

Cas slowly spread his hands, staring at his fingers. He had cared for Dean from the moment he'd dragged him from Hell's maw. Dean had been his duty, and then his charge, and then his friend, and then -

He'd given up everything for Dean, because he asked him to.

Naomi's voice softened, mistaking the dull shock and fractured realization on his face for submission. "You were a good and righteous angel once. You can be so again, Castiel.” 

Cas didn't know what he felt, but these feelings were _his._ The way Naomi said it, distilled it down into something so simple and blunt and crass, all Castiel could feel was anger.

Something hardened in his features, and a stark flare of lucidity made him lean forward in his seat. “I am trying to be good, _because_ of the Winchesters. If it weren't for them, I -” The angel stood, calves backing into the chair and making its feet scrape jarringly against the tiled floor.

"I've made mistakes. But they were _my_ mistakes. Dean taught me the only thing God never did: free will. And you won't take that from me. I won't let you."

If she saw the fire in his eyes, it didn't reflect in hers. The look she gave him was a few degrees away from disappointed, and sent down the bridge of her nose.

"Sit down, Castiel."

There was not even time to feel shame when his body abruptly found itself back in the chair. Exhaling gently and shaking her head, Naomi lifted her weight from her desk. She circled around it to stand just in front of Castiel, leaning her hip against the edge of the desk and lacing her fingers on her lap.

Naomi smiled in a fashion that made him feel... insignificant. "We'll deal with these things in time. Right now, we have a problem, and you must attend to it." Castiel forced his gaze to meet hers, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to say "No", but he didn't.

He said, "What is it?"

When Castiel found himself in Rufus' cabin, he had to blink away the impression of shock-white against his vision. It was strange, but he dismissed it off-handedly.

He glanced down at the sleeping hunter sprawled across the sofa, it was with detached interest. Dean was asleep, but Castiel had news that couldn't wait. He reached out, intent on disturbing him, but his hand stopped halfway to the hunter's shoulder when he shifted.

Dean adjusted his body in his sleep, lips smacking faintly. His shoulder shrugged to squeeze his arm tighter against the beer bottle held in a vice between his side and his elbow.

He seemed serene. Strange, how rare that was.

Cas lowered his hand, and he felt a dim and inexplicable rightness as he did.

Maybe it could wait just a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Casually hijacks the beginnings of episodes for her own evil purposes/
> 
> 1) this was actually the first scene I conceptualized for this fic,
> 
> 2) yes Cas remembers all this after the Angel Tablet clears Naomi's grip on him,
> 
> 3) any and all encouragement is massively appreciated. Trying to keep my inspiration up. Thanks!!


	6. Season 8 Episode 17

Night had overcome them before they knew it, a muddled sky sprawling out above the Missouri highway. Between a dark layer of clouds and light pollution, there wasn’t a star in sight.

They’d both wanted to get back to the bunker, but Dean’s head had started drooping, and he’d flat-out rejected Sam’s suggestion that he take over. Instead, they stopped at the first roadside motel they found. It was the sort of town that barely merited a speck on a map; awful for the average road trip, but perfect for a hunter to get a night’s sleep without running into anyone or attracting any kind of attention.

Sam exhaled hard enough for the breath to rattle in his throat. His hands were trembling, even when he wrung them together to try and soothe the shakes.

He wasn't stupid. He knew his body, and he knew how far he'd gotten from normal. The very structure of his muscles felt weak and frail under his skin, like he was a paper cut-out of himself. It felt worse when he was alone. Louder. He couldn't ignore it.

The first Trial had stripped the strength from him - but it didn't scare him. He was worried about what Dean might do if he knew the full truth about just how deeply God's Trial had dug into him, but he wasn't worried about himself.

Of course it hurt. It hurt like puking his guts out, but in the same way, it was necessary pain. This was a purge. Sam palmed over his forehead with a trembling hand, and he could feel the fever beneath his skin.

Dean didn't understand. Couldn't. Dean wouldn't look past the fact Sam was in pain. Sam needed this - but more than that, the world needed this. As much as he loved his big brother, he shared a certain short-sightedness with John Winchester.

This wasn't about them. This was about closing Hell for good, and nothing was more important than that. It felt like rewinding the clock on every mistake he'd made and taking a torch to his past. It felt like ripping out Azazel's influence on his life by the roots.

He may've been the Winchester that had kickstarted the Apocalypse, but ending all demonkind surely had to count for something, didn't it?

“Sammy.”

Dean's voice didn't make him jump, but that felt more because of his sluggish reaction time than because it didn't startle him. Lifting his head, Sam watched Dean stride across the parking lot toward him, spinning a room key on the knuckle of his index finger.

“We're in five. They only had singles, so I’ll get the pull-out.”

Pinching his lips, Sam pushed his weight off the side of the Impala, watching Dean circle around him to get to the trunk and pop it open. “You're _volunteering_ for the roll-out bed?” he asked, dubiously, though he knew where this was going before it got there.

“You took it last time.” Dean stated lowly, yanking his brother's satchel out of the trunk before grabbing his own. Sam had to lurch to catch it when Dean tossed it at him a little too hard. He frowned, shouldering the bag gently, studying his brother's lifted shoulders and ticking jaw.

If he knew Dean at all - and he knew Dean very well - every iota of him was screaming _‘don't mess with me today.’_

So, naturally, Sam argued. “Not true. I remember last time. It’s my turn for crap sleep.”

Hauling his bag up over his shoulder and carrying it like a sack, Dean didn’t even give him a glance. “Then it’s your lucky day.” he grunted, utterly dismissive.

And Dean wondered why Sam had hesitated to divulge how he was doing with the Trials. It, like any other show of weakness, inevitably led to a meltdown in one way or the other. At best, it got in the way of the job; at worst, their relationship.

His brother's passive-aggressive way of caring for him had gotten old about fifteen years ago. “Is this what you’re going to do, Dean? Put on kid gloves with me? I appreciate what you said earlier, really, I do, but -”

“Sam.” The name came out of Dean like a swear, the elder Winchester slamming the trunk shut with one hand while his body loosely swung to face Sam. The anger wasn't there, though, not like Sam expected. It was closer to exhaustion. “It’s three in the morning. Truce?”

Dean's face was drawn and his eyes were dark, skeletal shadows cast under his brows and against his cheeks by the motel's sparse outdoor lighting. There was a plea in his voice. Sam recognized it for what it was: things were spiraling out of control, and Dean needed to get a grip on something.

It wasn’t worth a fight. If a miserable night’s sleep was what Dean felt he needed, then it wasn’t exactly a sacrifice on Sam’s part. Dean was compelled to take care of his brother. Sam was compelled to finish the Trials.

They had to do what they had to do.

“Yeah. Forget it.” Sam responded, too fast. Dean averted his eyes, and the rawness in his face smoothed over. He wrestled every solitary facial muscle back under wraps, burying what Sam had clearly seen. They'd both tipped their hands.

Dean forced a dismissive chuckle, tucking his bag under his arm and turning away to walk toward the huddled row of motel rooms. “I'm just tired, man. Got me a date with some shut-eye.”

Shrugging his satchel flush against his body and bearing most of the weight against his hip, Sam followed after him. He sighed, pulling the flesh of his inner cheeks between his teeth and chewing idly.

Dean had been quiet since Lincoln Springs and Lucifer’s Crypt. Sam knew his brother was angry with him for lying about his health, but this was more. This was about Cas, and Sam was getting all too familiar with the fallout from things about Cas.

Learning that Dean had prayed to Cas in secret had been a surprise. He still remembered how much shit Dean had once given him for praying at all. This was a little different, sure, and they'd both come a long way from questioning the existence of God and angels.

Still, the idea of Dean asking for help - especially from someone he didn't think would answer - caught Sam off-guard. He’d long since stopped thinking of his brother as invincible, but thinking of him as totally vulnerable felt... strange, too.

As Dean stalked up to their room door, Sam risked the subject. “Think we'll hear from him?”

“No.” Dean's response was muted, more a grumble leaked from the corner of his mouth than full-formed words. “He’s off protecting the Tablet. From us. 'Cause Cas is just a damn treasure.”

“He was under someone's control, Dean.” Sam wasn't really feeling up to defending Castiel’s actions, but Dean was being unfair and there was a puzzle here they needed to tackle eventually. “This Naomi is probably another angel, stronger than Cas.”

His elder brother clearly wasn’t having any of it, though he kept his silence. His head shook in a slow and frustrated wag as he got the room opened up. Sliding the key into the lock, he had to jiggle it a bit when it got stuck in the mechanism.

“Hey, they've influenced him before. When they popped him out of Jimmy, Cas came back different, remember? He completely changed his mind on helping us. We don’t even know what happened back then, or what they did to get him to fall back in line.”

Pushing the door open and pawing for the lightswitch, Dean's head shook once with a snort. “Angelic time-out?” Dean suggested, and his tone was doused with humor and disbelief. He strode into the squat motel room, going instantly toward the bed. He reached out to the nightstand, flicking on the lamp to light the room.

“Funny.” Sam followed after him, slowly closing the door with his shoulder and leaning flat against it. “We know angels can bend time, change memories. Maybe they just decided totally brainwashing him was easier. It didn’t seem like _he_ even knew anything was happening, right? He seemed normal, up until… you know.”

Cas disappearing under mysterious and ominous circumstances was turning into old hat enough to fall lazily under the umbrella of _‘you know.’_ Killing Alfie - the angel they’d expended serious energy to save - and disappearing with blood leaking from his eyes just happened to be this particular _‘you know.’_

Crouching down in the off-yellow light of the bedside lamp, Dean grasped the edge of the pull-out cot secreted underneath the hotel room bed and dragged it out. “Yeah.” he muttered, shoving the latches closed to hold it steady. “I guess. Doesn’t explain why he ran away with the Tablet. I get protecting it from the God Squad, but us? He can’t trust us?”

Sam gave his brother a once-over before approaching, resting his bag on the foot of the main bed and unzipping it. “I don’t think it’s about us, Dean. The Tablets are powerful. Kevin talks about how it feels like it’s his duty to translate them, like it matters more than anything. Maybe the Angel Tablet has the same effect on Cas, just… to protect it, instead.”

“Really, Sam?”

The exasperation in his voice made Sam’s head turn. Dean thrust his arms out to either side before letting his palms slap flat on his thighs. “The guy goes all Mr. Blonde on a bunch of townies, kicks my ass and then disappears, and all you got is ‘it wasn’t his fault’? Am I the only person you get mad at anymore?”

That brought a laugh out of Sam, even as he shook his head. “Pretty much.” Reaching over his shoulder and grabbing a handful of his shirt, he tugged it over his head, torso hunching with sore muscles as he wriggled out of the fabric.

Dean smiled a little, that faint eye-crinkling look that was rare in its sincerity. Sam might’ve missed it had he not gotten out of his shirt in time; it was gone as fast as it had appeared.

“So, square one, and all we got is a lot of bad news.” Dean dropped himself down onto the pull-out, flopping into a vaguely comfortable sprawl on the squashed mattress and off-white sheets. The spring contraption squeaked and creaked in protest at his every move.

“Yeah.” Sam agreed, shoving his shirt into his pack. He’d clean the blood out of it later, and there’d be time enough for a shower in the morning. Right then, he just wanted to lay down - and he did, letting his legs buckle against the foot of the hotel bed and his body collapse onto the mattress.

He struck the surface weightily, flexing out sore muscles. “Too bad about Meg.”

Dean huffed an unappreciative sound as the impact shook through the whole frame of the bed and jostled him, too. “Too bad?” he echoed, crooking an arm beneath his head as a pillow.

Sam was only faintly surprised at the push-back, snorting faintly. He couldn’t _really_ blame Dean. He might’ve had similar opinions a few hours ago, before the demon had opened up to him a little. “She died to buy us an escape, Dean. Demons don’t come back from Angel blades. You’re not even a little bit grateful?”

The elder Winchester flapped a hand idly in the air, waving away the sentiment. “She was just looking to screw Crowley over. Enemy of my enemy, or whatever.” Dean was quick on the defense when Sam angled a disapproving glance at him over the edge of the bed. “Look, I wasn’t planning on ganking the chick, but I’m not gonna complain about one less Winchester-approved demon running around.”

“Like Crowley?”

“Like Ruby.”

Quick on the defense, but even quicker on the attack. Their conversations were minefields, lately. Sam closed his eyes and flopped his head down on the pillow. Ruby’s manipulation was a distinct and sour memory, but Meg had been sincere, he thought.

Sam hadn’t missed his soul when he’d lost it. It had felt like a better existence, like shedding a burden. He’d been wrong, of course, but that was how it’d felt in the moment. How far was that from being a demon? Perhaps she really had remembered being human. Missed it.

He could’ve tried to explain the difference between Meg and Ruby to his brother, but… that conversation was better off kept private. Somehow, he didn’t think Dean would find unicorns very meaningful.

Instead, all he could muster up the strength to say was, “Meg was different.”

Dean laughed, and it was a neat and hollow sound that cut the air between them. “Come on, Sam. Nobody’s different.” Sam reopened his eyes and glanced down at Dean, but his brother’s eyes had closed in turn, and his expression was coolly impassive. “We’re all the same chumps running the same circles.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just sighed. He couldn’t really find an argument against that.

His brother spoke again without stirring, breaking the silence before it could drag. “But, yeah. I get it. We’ll spill some beer for her.” There was a distinct hush to his voice as the exhaustion started setting in, the words drawling out. “Feels like we’re running out of friendly faces, huh, Sammy?”

Inhaling deeply, Sam rolled himself onto his back. He stared up at the motel ceiling and the waterstains that splotched their way across the plaster in vaguely cloudlike shapes. “Yeah.” He rolled the words around in his head, like he might find a crack somewhere he could leverage to pry them open.

There was a deeper honesty there, though he wasn’t sure where Dean’s disdain was directed. Maybe everywhere, or maybe at himself.

Or…

“Cas’ll be back.” He said it in a distant way, like an after-thought. He didn’t expect a response, but when the pull-out gave a sharp creak, Sam risked a glance over at him. Dean had shifted his arm from its crook under his head to let his elbow drape over his eyes instead. The shadow from it covered most of his face - all but the faintly pinched curl of his mouth.

If there were a guide to Dean’s body language, that one would’ve fallen under his many _‘this conversation is over’_ gestures.

Resting his head back down on his pillow, face half-buried in the cushioned warmth, Sam let his hand stretch out to catch the knob for the bedside lamp. It clicked off, and darkness drenched the room in one swift flash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam POV because....................... Sam.
> 
> I am fond of Sam being ridiculously on-point and Dean getting his panties in a twist too hard to see how right his little brother is. :| Nono, Sam... keep being totally right about everything.. yeeesss.. Dean's totally not listening.
> 
> Two comments: 1) I love Meg to death (no pun intended), so pls note that all negative sentiment expressed here is not mine P: She's a total doll, just didn't fit a scene with her in this whole fic gameplan.
> 
> 2) this is less shipper!Sam and more just Sam's been a witness to how much Cas kicks Dean in the ass with his deaths/betrayals and knows it really gets at him.
> 
> There's gonna be shipping someday. Maybe? Possibly? Who even knows???


	7. Season 8 Episode 17 (con't)

"Can I get you anything?"

Castiel had heard the words approximately two hundred and eighty-six times.

He never failed to be impressed by humanity's inclination toward obliviousness. The waiter peering down at him had, apparently, not noticed that he had merely _appeared_ at the table - and neither had any of the other patrons.

Cas had taken precautions to avoid being seen in the first few Biggerson's he'd bounced between. He quickly realized the extra expenditure of energy to remain invisible, or to warp the perception of onlookers to simply accept his presence, wasn't necessary. If they noticed him, they dismissed their own observation… and they usually didn't.

"No, thank you." he murmured, politely, though his voice was rough beyond measure. Responding to two hundred and eighty-six offers would have grown tiresome for most other beings, he was sure, but Castiel was nothing if not patient. There was a warmth thrumming through his body, emanating from the tablet secreted away inside his vessel.

It was a healing warmth. Soothing. He could think clearly for the first time in so long. First he'd been addled with madness, and then he'd been clouded by the fractured control Naomi had over him. He felt free and bound by purpose all at once. Freed by purpose, maybe. The Angel Tablet was undeniably pushing him down this course of action, had undeniably activated some aeons-old instinct inside of him that had sent him fleeing, even from Dean… but this was cleansing.

No more of Naomi's manipulations. This was something entirely _other._

This was God.

Not directly - but close enough. The Tablet was the Word of God, and it sang to him, even from where it was buried just beneath his body's beating heart. He still felt some bitterness, still tasted the acrid disappointment that the Tablet's power was the closest he might come to a commandment from his Holy Father, … and yet, he felt compelled.

The waiter _ahem_ 'd indelicately, and Cas was startled. He'd grown so used to the rhythm of it - the same question and the same response, over and over, capped by the waiter or waitress stepping away and leaving him in peace - that a break from the norm was jarring.

It was like being tugged from dormancy, and all he could do was look at the man and blink.

"This isn't a park, dude. At least buy a Coke." The waiter tapped a palm-sized pad of paper against his stomach, rising impatience flattening his mouth at the same time it arched up his brow. He seemed vaguely irritated, and Castiel didn't know how to respond. He wasn't entirely sure what the man meant - of _course_ it wasn't a park, it was a fast-food restaurant, nor did he see how purchasing a drink was relevant.

The words barely stuck to begin with. The scenery before his eyes had begun to turn surreal, time and place changing in fluid shifts that he barely noticed. Engaging the waiter felt difficult. Strenuous. The only thing that anchored him to reality was the constant prickle at the back of his neck that warned him to keep moving.

And that prickle was sharpening, turning into a chill.

"I don't have any money." he responded, because it was the truth. It was also the wrong response, apparently. The waiter's expression warped more toward irritation, and his mouth popped open.

Unfortunately, Cas didn't have the time. Once Naomi's soldiers caught his scent, they'd be narrowing in on him, fast. So, Cas did the only thing that seemed prudent: he left. A swift flap of his wings carried him thousands of miles away, and for all the world, it seemed as if he'd picked the room up and taken it with him. The windows turned pitch black, and a sudden, all-consuming silence thudded down around him as all its inhabitants seemed to disappear.

A different Biggerson's in a different state. This one was closed.

He knew he'd been the only thing to move, of course, but part of his tactic hinged on how identical each restaurant was. It muddled his location and muddled the distance between each jump. Naomi had resources, but not even she could assign angels to every single Biggerson's. She couldn't capture him, not like this.

He could feel the distance he'd put between himself and his pursuers. He had some space to breathe, at least.

Castiel stood up for the first time in a long time, sliding out of his chair and straightening up to his full height. There was no pain in his joints, but there was a stiffness that made him feel more statue than flesh. He reached up a hand and palmed against his sternum, tracing the plate of bone that shielded the Tablet.

Its power had shaken off every last mooring of Naomi's control, and Cas could see clearly the events that had unfolded after his 'release' from Purgatory. All the little inconsistencies, the moments of indecision, the memories that didn't quite align with reality: they all made sense now. He knew, deep down, Naomi's control didn't absolve him of his actions. He'd _'gone dark side'_ again, and there was no easy forgiveness waiting for him.

Least of all from himself. Least of all from…

He still remembered the training. The memory of killing Dean over, and over, and over was clear as day in his mind's eye. Knowing it was an illusion made no difference in how difficult it had been. Every time Dean collapsed, lungs rattling as his life faded away, some part of Castiel had fractured a little more.

 _Grab his arm. Twist. Put the blade through his heart._ Dean was so fragile. His elbow shattered like glass, and the agony had made his whole body fail. Cas barely had to push to get him to drop to his knees, and putting the Angel blade through his chest was like slicing through butter. Naomi called it ruthless - without hesitation.

She missed the guilt. Cas aimed directly for Dean's heart to silence that pleading whisper and darken those begging eyes as fast as he could.

Naomi had accused him of falling for Dean. And hadn't he? For Dean, he'd fallen from Heaven in every sense aside from losing his Grace. Dean had asked, and he had given. Dean had turned him from everything he'd ever believed in and laid out a new path and Cas had followed it like gospel. Even when it had led to dark places, sometimes his own end, he'd followed it.

And when he'd gone astray, he'd found his way back to Dean, not to God.

But was that like love? Human, mortal love? Cas wasn't sure he knew the answer.

Closing his eyes and tilting his head as if in search of some far-off song, Cas combed through his memories. Humans had memories like transient bubbles, sugar-sweet and wild in their vagueness. His own were like ink on parchment. They stretched back centuries; piled high in dusty, looming stacks. He could recall everything in crystal clarity, like thumbing back through the pages of a book.

Jimmy's memories lingered on the edges of his periphery, though the human's soul was long gone. They were just impressions, though. Faint. Like fingerprints left behind by an idle hand. Jimmy was in Heaven and this vessel had been reborn and recreated so many times it was almost hardly his anymore.

Cas had never thought to look into his vessel's memories while Jimmy was still alive.

It had never seemed… necessary. It wasn't the invasion of privacy that had bothered him. After all, Jimmy would have shared them willingly had he ever asked. No, it had simply never occurred to him as something he wanted to do. He thought he understood humans well enough, at least within the context of how different they were from angels.

Regret passed through him, now. Maybe he could have gleaned some kind of insight from his human vessel. He had loved his wife, hadn't he? And his daughter? He'd sacrificed himself for them. If things had gone differently, Jimmy might still have been his vessel, by all rights dead from the wounds he'd suffered and living only off the fuel of Castiel's Grace. Cas might not have seen the tragedy of it back then… but he recognized it, now. He appreciated the cost Jimmy Novak had paid for his family.

Had he paid costs for Dean? Dean, for him?

Was that love?

Dean had knelt at his feet and whispered _"I need you, Cas."_ past bloody teeth and streaking tears. The way Dean crumpled under his blows, succumbing to the violence as if he'd accept death if Cas was going to mete it out. He barely even tried to fight, like all his hunter instinct failed him.

Was _that_ love?

Maybe love was what let Cas break through the fugue long enough to grab ahold of the Tablet and clear his mind.

He shook his head, but couldn't shake off the train of thought. Something made sense about it - it felt _right_ to love Dean. He'd cherished him from the moment he'd wrapped his arms around Dean's tattered soul and flown it out of Hell. Cherished him ever more with each struggle he'd watched the Winchesters tackle.

It was a pure and simple feeling in his chest, clear as spring water - but if he knew anything about humans and their feelings, nothing was truly simple. He had seen the breadth and variance of their relationships, but never thought he'd need to understand them. He was ages old, and he was out of his depth.

If he loved Dean, what did that mean?

He thought of kissing Meg. She'd been soft against him, warm and sudden. He'd cared for her and had enjoyed the kiss. He was unused to the simple pleasure of tactile contact that humans took for granted. Angels lacked physical forms beyond their vessels, and there was something electric in basic sensation. The intimacy had been new… welcome.. pleasant…

Then he thought of brushing his fingertip along the peaceful lines of the hunter's sleeping face, and it had felt like tender revelation.

Would a kiss with Dean be even more intense?

The thought sent warmth flooding across his face, and his breath clipped short. Cas was startled at how quickly his skin had warmed at the mere intimation of kissing Dean. He reined in the vascular reaction of his cheeks with a thought, exhaling smoothly, color fading as the capillaries constricted.

He was getting distracted.

The angel slid into the nearest chair, pressing both his hands against his chest. He didn't expect the Tablet to give him any insight, but it comforted him all the same, and reaching for its power cleared his mind. He had to keep it safe. His own concerns, Sam and Dean… they had to come second. The Angel Tablet was his responsibility.

Castiel closed his eyes, yielding to the nagging unease that reminded him he'd been in one place too long. His wings spread out to their fullest extent before beating down, and the next Biggerson's fell into place around him. The sudden explosion of chatter was a welcome distraction, and for a moment, he let his eyes rove around the room.

Humans were unique and brilliant creatures, even with grease and ketchup on their chins. Cas smiled a little, despite himself. Dean and he had once sat on a park bench and watched the people pass and children play. He remembered the way Dean had looked at him when he'd said he'd been hoping they would save the town. Surprised, and … glad.

He could only hope Dean would look at him like that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Weirdly, you can thank re-watching BBC Sherlock for this update. Got the bug for writing fic again but I funneled the inspiration back into this baby. I am tickled by Cas' simplistic view of some things. Also note that whether or not Dean wants to kiss him has not yet factored into his train of thought.
> 
> Pretty sure next chap will have Dean and Cas in the same scene again. We'll see. Them in the same room is the last thing a shipfic needs, right? Right! There are some openings between ep 17 and 21 that tempt me to write chapters for them but... we'll see. The show handles most of the drama pretty well on its own. Don't need me to reinvent the wheel for a heavily canon fic.
> 
> Appreciate any feedback, and thanks to anyone who's been waiting for an update and was interested enough to come back. :)


End file.
